Cost of A Soul
by Rose Midnight Moonlight Black
Summary: All Evil comes at a cost – its just about finding which cost is too high for you. But can Damian Wayne sacrifice his innocent chance of redemption, the one person he never wanted to know but the one person he couldn't forget–his baby brother-for his evil?


DISCLAIMER: own nothing, just borrowing.

DAMIAN for those who don't know, is Bruce's bio son from the comics - his Talia's and so Ra's grandson. In the Comic's he's a badass but good eight year old Robin. In this story, I play around with my second fave version of him; evil Ra's Damian who still has a fasination with his blood brother. XD - Who just doesn't love the lit' devil? That being so, look out for my other Damian stalking around FanFiction and maybe, a much darker one that this, messing around with Terry's life.

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**Cost of a Soul**

The true irony of this situation was that for some reason, some perhaps divine purpose, he hadn't seen this coming. He who saw all, he know could read a person's true character in one glance, who had plan a contingency plan for every possible – _hadn't seen this coming_. At all.

But then he had never seen him coming at all either. In all his years, it had never once crossed his mind that his father might have another son, another heir – that beyond all the hopeful but inevitable failures of his adopted sons, that his father might actually father a _decent_ son.

If he could be called that.

Everything Damian knew, everything he'd ever been told, taught or believed in was telling him that his younger – practically a baby-brother was a failure. If the blood running down his face, the shallow rise of his chest or the exhausted shaking of his limbs didn't prove it then the gun to his head did. He failed, he forfeited everything – those were the rules of the League of Assassins, those were Damian's rules.

So why did Damian have this irrational desire to protect him? To strike down the uppity upstart and show him the wrath of the Devil himself? Everything here was so right yet something inside him screamed that it was wrong.

The man seemed to drone on, boasting, exaggerating about all the gory detail – frankly Damian didn't give a damn and any other time his irritant would be keenly felt. Any other time. This time Damian's eyes were firmly fixed on the scum at his feet and not any lower. Never any lower.

The deadly still body on the floor wasn't at all interesting to look at, or so he told himself.

The prattling continued – did it never stop? Damian tried not to sneer. This man was a killer but no assassin, no real mastery of anything. He tried to claim membership on his kill but there was nothing about him that showed his worthiness, nothing that marked him a true servant of his. The man was a dishonorable slum bag, a real dreg as his brother would say. The fact he attacked his mark the way he did and then claim it...!

Setting building on fire to lure your prey in and then hitting him with a poisoned dart. Smart, but far from fair. This was luck. There was nothing to gain from a slaughter when you tricked an adversary.

_'I should kill him for the sheer arrogance to claim this... he tricked Ter-Batman. He certainly didn't beat him. There are worse things than death in this lifetime._ '

A small groan didn't cut the man's speech short and Damian's lips twitched. His brother was awake, had been for some time now, and appeared no more impressed with the speech than Damian was. Of course Terry hated speeches unless they were his own sarcastic ones. It wasn't hard to guess that his brother was bemoaning the fact the scum hadn't just killed him earlier in his head and Damian almost agreed, knowing that if Terry had died earlier then Damian would be spared this imbecile's company.

The scum reached the end of his speech and drew a dagger triumphantly. Now was the time. Damian unconsciously sat up straighter and tried to squash the rising horror in his stomach. He nodded to his brother's would-be-killed. He was Damian Wayne, the eldest son of Batman. He didn't shy away from anything. He was grandson to Ra's Al Ghul, the demon's head – the leader of the League of Assassins. Blood was his wine. Death was his food.

He didn't notice his baby brother's eyes- his eyes – burrow into him when he was dragged to his knees.

He didn't notice the calm look, the acceptance in them, but the lacking glint of broken defeat in them was fascinating.

He didn't notice anything but the gleam of the dagger being raised above his brother's neck. A more painful death. Execution. Suddenly Damian hated this man more than anything, for unleashing this torment inside him, this conflict. Nothing else was important when his heart seemed to force its way through his chest and under the blade. It was ridiculous, sentiments, the sort of things a weak, mortal man felt. Nothing Ra's Al Ghul could feel. Nothing Batman would have either.

The dagger fell down and Damian twitched, his body embarrassingly jerking in instinctive panic before a knife pierced skin.

He watched emotionlessly as the man beneath him gasped, body spasming at the violent intrusion.

He watched as red spread down through clothes and felt nothing, though Damian was sure he should know how wrong this was. Yet this was right – it would destroy him but as much as he wanted to close his eyes and mourn the passing of this one chance, he did nothing.

He didn't look into his brother eyes, did want to see that knowing look, the surprise. He didn't want to search his soul to see what this new revelation, this death, cost him. He'd already sold his soul and there wasn't a termination clause in the deal.

Mortally wounded, he slid to the floor, gurgling blood while the man next to him did nothing, frozen in surprise. This bloody murder was almost a shock, though it shouldn't be. Damian didn't look at the dead body on his floor – that was very unimportant at this time – instead he looked at his baby brother, whose icy blue eyes didn't blink away from his. The eyes he wished he'd never seen.

Terry stared at him, not shocked, not really surprised – more a detached interest. A knowing smile flicked onto his face in a way Damian instantly pinned down from their father; however it was full of cryptic amusement and shiny emotions, and yet completely blank – a trait purely Terry. Damn it.

The last thing Damian wanted was to encourage Terry to think he cared about it, or that their blood relation was important – he was too busy denying it to himself to stop Terry. And he didn't need people to think he had a heart.

"He was annoying." He didn't say it to explain, it was an empty statement –an accusation aimed at the kneeling teenager as if Damian somehow blamed Terry for this irritation. Maybe he did.

The teenager shrugged, "There's a bounty on my head – these things tend to happen." – He said it so flippantly, like this was as normal as the neighbourhood bully having a thing for him. Like his life was a joke and this attempt to end it was the punch line.

Damian's lips thinned, "Not anymore." – His rep couldn't deal with the amount of damage it would take if he was forced to protect Terry from every half hearted assassination attempt – or at least until he figured out how to stop this stupid inability to see Terry hurt.

Terry tilted his head to the side, his too-large ears making Damian think he resembled an annoyed Cassandra too much, "Going to kill me yourself?" - Except Terry thought this was hilarious.

"Naturally. You don't seem too upset about sitting in a pool of blood." Dad would be disappointed,

Damian would be proud – except he figured Terry was a little too young to be corrupted yet. Dad would break his fingers if he knew Damian was seriously considering it. Shockingly, the temper was purely from Bruce Wayne's side of the gene-pool.

"He killed a lot of innocent people for no reason at all. I'm not going to cry myself to sleep over him even if I didn't want him dead." His voice was frosty and dark, returning Damian's accusing tone. And most likely in spite of himself, there were hints of anger and guilt escaping into Terry's words. Guilt that he was the reason those people were dead. Angry that Damian thought he didn't care someone was dead, and angry at himself for not _really_ caring. Of course, there were more important things to be bothered over, if only Damian could make Terry see that.

Damian leant back in his seat. Maybe Terry wasn't as young as he appeared to be, and maybe Terry wasn't as morally inflexible as Damian had first though him to be. "I wouldn't say there was 'no reason at all.'" Damian corrected him a small, blood-freezing smile on his face. It was a genuine one, not sadistic, not sarcastic, not a fake-violent-promising one.

Terry snorted bitterly, "Isn't this the point where you get bored and kill me?"

"Bored of you? Never. Who could be bored, when you offer such an entertaining _effort_ – tell me, has Bruce, Daddy, taught you _anything_, or has senility finally kicked in?" Terry blushed and appeared to struggle to find words brutal enough to match his temper. "Don't hurt yourself trying, Kid."

The look of murder might have been terrifying to anyone else, but to Damian it was amusing, almost laughable – but at least Terry had learned _that_ right. Maybe there was hope.

Damian learned forwards, closer to Terry's face, "You know, if you wanted, I could teach you everything you'd need to know. You wouldn't get your ass handed to you, nor would you need me or anyone else to save you. Again. You'd never need anyone's help or advice. I could teach you to best the best – or I could teach you to protect anyone from even the most able assassin or villain." His smile didn't flicker. Terry did.

"Gotham wouldn't be able to ask for a better defender – you could do all that on your own. No Robin, no Batgirl, no Oracle, no Commissioner Gordon – no Father. What you need to know is the fire to beat it. Even Father knows how to kill with a flick of his hand. We could save Gotham at last. More than Gotham together; we could protect the world, Terry – the two of us."

It was Terry's turn to laugh.

"That's your 'come to the dark side, Luke,' speech? Tempting, but no thanks. I don't think Bruce would be happy if I skipped school to hang with you and your 'gang'."

Damian shrugged, not at all offended. He hadn't expected Terry to accept, the boy was too young to understand what Damian was offering him completely. It was too soon. But the potential was more than enough for Damian to wait until his brother was ready to convert to his side of the chess board.

From Black to White.

"You'll see, eventually."

Terry's eyes narrowed dangerously, "Really? What makes you think that? Why would I join the death muncher-wanna-bes?"

Damian slumped back, aware he didn't look very intimidating when he relaxed. In fact he looked almost bored or completely sure.

"You'll get tired. You'll get frustrated. You'll see how little your actions influence the battle – for every crook and thug you put away another five take their place. For every robbery you break up, another five take place. For every assault, shooting, rape, murder you stop, there will be another ten you didn't. You'll realize you're fighting a losing war," Damian smirked, "that you need to do more – but how can you do that when you're already run down to the bone? When you've run your partners down to the bone and they're starting to resent your insistence. You'll insist because they'll never see what you see, the battle for Gotham's soul and you're losing."

He could see Terry struggling to interrupt and held up a hand to stop him, "There _will_ be partners, I assure you. You'll realize, with despair, that you're failing Gotham; that you're turning into the one thing you've never wanted to be – Father." Damian moved closer, until his face was barely an inch from Terry's, their identical blue eyes fighting for dominance.

"Then, then you'll realize I'm right. That I could help you. That I can save Gotham and we can save the world. That we can save humanity from the darkness, from the backside – from its self. Did Dad ever tell you about the Justice Lords?"

Damian tilted his head to the side, noting the flicker in the younger boy's eyes. Interest, curiosity – hook, line, now the sinker. "No, of course not, he tried to keep it quiet even from us when it happened."

Terry's eyes twitched and Damian smirked, "The Justice Lords were an alternate Justice League but the only difference between them was the Justice Lords won. There was no crime in their world, no criminals, no thefts – no murders. No injustice." He whispered softly, like he was reading from the bible. Terry's eyes glinted in interest, hungry for more despite his obvious reluctance to hear Damian's words.

"The Justice League saw firsthand the peaceful world the Justice Lords had created and do you know what they did?" Terry shook his head minutely, "They fought back, called the Justice Lords tyrants and murders because they, unlike the League had realized what they needed to win and weren't afraid to do it. They killed, yes and they won because of it. You know what destroyed that peaceful world, what brought violence and crime kicking and screaming back into it?" Terry shook his head, completely mesmerized and Damian sank down on to his knees, in the pool of blood, next to him. He never looked away.

"Bruce."

Terry leant back, his eyes wide and denying, "No," he shook his head as if that would stop it from being any truer. His whole body shook in stubborn refusal. Not Bruce.

But Damian nodded sombrely. "Dad convinced the other Batman that the League was right and the Lords were wrong – he used our grandparents to do so, manipulated his own guilt over it. The League was scared, Terry, the Lords came to this world because they felt sorry for the League, because there was peace in their world and they want to spare ours too. But, mostly, because they were bored. There isn't much near for crime-fighters in a world without crime, people didn't really need them anymore and that scared the League more than anything. You know Bruce, not being Batman is killing him faster that age ever could, imagine him in a world where Batman wasn't needed. Where he wasn't needed."

Damian could see the affect of his words clear. Terry bit his lip and fought it, struggled between everything he know and everything he believed. Everything Bruce had ever taught was saying that Bruce's apparent actions were wrong...yet Bruce had done it. His brow furrowed as he debated back and forth, tried to make sense of it. There wasn't any sense. There wasn't an easy answer. But it's impossible to un-hear something, to un-learn and un-know something. Damian saw his words bury deep down and spread roots in Terry's mind.

Doubt was a man's greatest ally and his greatest foe – and Damian was the world's greatest opportunist. Always had been. If Bruce's reluctance to say anything about his past was a way for Damian to open his baby brother's eyes to the world, then Damian had no qualms in destroying their father's character. Even in Terry's eyes.

If a small part of him felt uncomfortable about manipulation of the truth, in seeing Terry in such obvious conflict and confusion – Damian was quick to silence it. That side had caused enough havoc tonight, now it was time for him to sow some chaos of his own, sit back and watch the drama grow.

Damian gripped his brother's shoulder and ignored the flinch, "You should probably go, before Dad gets too worried and thinks I've kidnapped you for my own evil plans." Again – not that Damian had ever done such a thing or ever shown an interest but parental minds work strangely, or at least Bruce and Barbara's did. The old man was surprising quick to jump to conclusions when Damian was involved.

Terry didn't look half as confident as he tried to but Damian ignored it, because it was part of the plan blooming in his head. "Haven't you?" he asked weakly behind a fake quip. Damian indulged him.

"Not this month, maybe next time." He patted his shoulder and stood up, pretending not to see the blood stains on his favourite robe. Damn it.

"The exit is out the big door and the second left – you might not remember being brought in, but I'm sure you'll not find the way out hard."." There was an unspoken knowledge that by sunrise tomorrow (or today) Damian wouldn't be taking guests here anymore.

Damian didn't stick around for Terry's sarcastic reply, instead choosing to leave by a side door – he'd need to get changed out of the blood stained clothes (how undignified) and order his guards to not capture Terry if they saw him. He was also going to have to think up a reason for why his brother was alive and his captor dead -he figured he'd tell the truth and say that his business was his own and it was not his intention for Batman to die today, or any time soon and anyone who interfered with his plan would be punished severely. That tended to do the trick. If there was one thing his father had been right about was that criminals were a superstitious and cowardly lot. It worked in their favour time and time again. Now it would in Terry's turn.

"Next time then," he heard Terry mutter as he staggered to his feet. Damian didn't turn around, but he closed the door behind him. He told himself he was just doing his job as a purely evil man, but for some reason the guilt only got worse. Even if it wasn't today, Damian knew he'd eventually destroy Bruce, his character and his beliefs in Terry's eyes – had too, if he wanted his brother on his side. But it was hard to not feel something when you're plotting to destroy a father to get to the son. But Terry was worth it. Worth the wait.

_Yes little brother, there will be a next time. And one day, you will take me up on my offer – I'm sure of it._

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**Review, because if you do, I will in one shape or form, write more of Damian's menevolent-ness! - or his goodness, feel free to offer up plot lines.**


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